


Fair Game

by Scuffin_MacGuffin



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Pegging, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scuffin_MacGuffin/pseuds/Scuffin_MacGuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"How can you ever," she asks him, "be satisfied with maybe?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i> "How can you ever expect more?"</i>
</p><p>Anders and Hawke involve power in their bedroom games. Hawke sometimes struggles to understand Anders' motivations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Game

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=40941826#t40941826) at the Dragon Age Kink Meme. I really wanted to paint sort of a parochial, salt-of-the-earth type Hawke, the sort whose understanding of the world is based totally in family and loyalty and physicality and whose nobility is all the greater for it, and then contrast that with Anders and his more theoretical and relativistic way of thinking. I wanted to see what two such characters could give to each other and whether I could make them work. I think I've built some interesting tensions. Anyhow, I didn't tag this with archive warnings because everything that occurs is consensual, but be **warned** that there is some rape play going down.

+

It’s like this game that they play. That’s how she thinks of it. That’s how he tells her to think of it. It makes it a little easier, yeah, to not feel like a bully. Hawkes aren’t bullies (that’s what her Da said). Hawkes don’t take advantage (that was her Ma). And it’s not like _she_ ever feels ill-used, when he wins the round, when he catches her by surprise and his fingers circle her wrist and and he’s got his thumbnail digging into her pulse and it all crackles electric like a fucking choir screaming lust right out of the core of him -- yeah, when he wins the round, all it feels like is: _fuck, baby._

But it’s harder when it’s the other way. Hawke, she likes the competition. She doesn’t mind if she loses, sure, doesn’t mind the slick hot pleasure of it. But Hawke does play to win, always.

She suspects, sometimes, that Anders loses on purpose. And she isn’t so good at feeling out what goes on in people as some of her friends are, you know, the things in their heads. She’s spent so much time with her fingers on Anders’ spine and Anders’ wide wanting hand splayed out across her belly and she still hasn’t learned all the flavors of the tension that he carries. Like now, right now, for instance, how she can see him holding his quill, grip form-perfect, and his back so straight, maybe slightly arched even. Maybe anticipatory. His free hand curled over one knee. And there’s his head, tilted, just so. Ear tipped up. She’s wondering, does he know there’s someone in here with him? Does he know that right now if he turns around from his writing desk he’ll find her dusk-cast shadow leaking out from behind a stack of clinic supplies? He’s got that magic in him. He could just raise his eyebrow, stop her with a smirk. He could win the round.

He doesn’t, though. Turn around. Maybe he doesn’t know she’s here at all. She greased the hinges on the door. She was quiet, with her lockpicks. Never let the tumblr click. She’s quiet on her feet. And okay, yeah, he escaped all those times, he’s a little bit of a rogue himself, he’s got some fair good reason to keep up his guard. But Hawke’s rogue _all_ the way, like blood, like bones. And Anders’ got that magic in him. Anders’ got that magic in him and so Anders can never have both feet on the ground at once, both eyes on the real world.

So maybe he’s not losing on purpose. Maybe he thinks for true that he’s still alone. Hawke hopes it’s like that. Maker, but it’s easier if they’re both playing the same game. That’s what’s fair. Da and Ma said that too. Hawkes aren’t bullies. Hawkes don’t take advantage. Baby girl, Hawkes play fair.

She slinks forward over the tread earth. Every step so careful. Her heels, and then the balls of her feet, and then each individual toe, all soundless in settling. She’s right behind him now. Crouching. She’s watching the tip of his quill descend to begin fleshing out some new thought. Or maybe he’s just doodling. He denies it, but he does. She finds bits of herself in his margins. Her lips. A single one of her eyebrows. The curve of her breasts smothered under her armor. The curve of her breasts abundant under the sheets. He never does put all those pieces together. These pictures he makes never do congeal. Hawke’s never been so good at people. Does he know that she’s here?

How you take a mage is by surprise, from behind. They’ve got that magic in them. How you take a mage who wants to be taken -- well, maybe you’re a little more careful, then. How you _insult_ a mage: probably by being a little _too_ careful.

Nobody taught her this nuance. Never her Ma, never her Da. They said play fair, but they never explained it -- if the game is already ruthless, how fair can you really play?

She topples his chair, and he goes sprawling. With a sharp gasp, a gleam of blue. Maybe he didn’t know. Well, now he does. The blue is flickering. Can’t have that. She throws the chair out of the way and lunges, and the chair is clattering, the chair is knocking so jagged across the floor, and Anders’ breath answers so jagged in his lungs. He’s on his side and she’s on top of him, straddling his hip. His hip’s thin as a knife. She’s got a real knife in her hand. She doesn’t play favorites with her knives like Isabela does, but it’s a good knife. A sharp one. She’s got it at his throat. She’s got his wrists pinned down on the floor in front of his face -- can’t cast without his hands.

“Hey,” she says. “Hey there Anders. How’s things?”

Is it the same for him? His thumbnail in her pulse or her knife seesawing gently against his throat -- does he feel it like she does? The electric flutter? Spark and crackle? Does he feel the fucking heat of the thing?

He grunts and his neck goes tense and her blade scrapes his rough stubble. He pitches himself to the side all at once. Somewhere he finds the leverage. He throws her off as he gets his knees beneath him and wrenches his wrists out of her grip, and he’s pushing himself up onto his feet, and she’s rebounding onto hers, and fuck if she doesn’t love her man like this, so ready to jump. She ducks a lightning bolt and comes at him. He sidesteps. She ducks another one and _fuck_ if she doesn’t love the flash and the bang and the room lit so violent and bright. She comes at him again and he’s not quick enough. He gets the hard blunt hilt of her knife right to the center of the chest. He calls it the _sol-ar plex-us._ She knows it as the target that makes all the breath go out of somebody faster than the shiny out of a Rose girl’s mark. Anders’ knees buckle, but she doesn’t let him fall. She grabs him by the back of his collar and hauls him around to slam him face first into the wall next to his desk. He moves like to step, shakes his head a little, and she slams him again.

“I can get friendlier,” she warns.

Anders stops struggling, then. He laughs. “All right. All right, sweetheart, you win.”

And _that_ at least tastes like satisfaction -- fuck yeah, she wins. Hawke from Hightown who murders fucking dragons. Yeah, she wins against this skinny man.

This flame-fucked niggling _maybe,_ though.

Did he know?

“Tell me again,” she demands. Anders’ whole body has gone all easy and relaxed.

“You win. You’ve got me.”

“Yeah, I got you.” She tosses her knife carelessly aside and her voice teases high and light in contrast to the hilt’s dull thump into the dirt. “I got you all night long, however I want you. You want that?” She won’t do anything, unless he says he wants it. That wasn’t in the rules, when he first explained them, but dragon-murdering treasure-hunters get to make up their own fucking rules. Hawkes aren’t bullies and they don’t take advantage and they play fair far as they can tell what fair is -- Hawke gets to know out loud that he wants it, if that’s what she wants to hear. None of this guessing. None of this did-he-did-he-not. Hawke won so Hawke gets to have him however she wants, and tonight she wants him honest. She wants him congealed, all the pieces of him fitting the same image. She doesn’t want all this mystery he cloaks himself in, sometimes like a broken bird and sometimes like a hurricane. She hates having to wonder.

He pushes back against her, against the hardness she has stuffed down one pants-leg where it made her feel lopsided all down the climb through the estate cellars. She wears it special just for him, because that’s how he defined the terms: here’s what it means when I lose, here’s how you fuck me open. She wears it other times too, now and again, candlelit conventional love-you-love-you times. The harness leather circling her waist and lifting her buttocks and her telling him, you don’t have to lose for this. You don’t have to _lose_ for anything you want. Him always with the same smile twisting only one side of his lips.

He’s not smiling now. He’s panting, arching. Yeah, he wants it. Even she can tell. But so what. There’s still the principle of the thing.

She shoves her leathers a little way down her hips. She shoves down her pants. She pulls the cock out (and then she pulls it a little to the right, to get it into alignment again, stupid thing: the metal _‘o’_ of it that holds the base, the little straps that hold the _‘o,’_ bloody damnable contraption), and then she presses against him hard as he’s pressing against her. He gasps.

“Come on Anders,” she coaxes, affection-heavy. “You know I gotta hear you say it.”

“Yes,” he hisses, _“yes,_ I want it, you know I want it, _Hawke--”_

“Uh-huh, keep talking.”

“You infuriating little girl--”

“Well now you’re talking in the wrong direction. You want _‘girl’_ then you get down here and you put your mouth on me.”

“Fuck,” he says.

And well, she was going to make him do it after, anyway. So there’s no real reason not to grab him by the shoulders now and force him _down,_ to the ground, his face scraping the wall, to force him to his knees on the dirty floor. To grab him by his ponytail and drag him backwards, then throw him sideways, so his head cracks his desk and he’s sprawled all off-balance, all pushed up against the side of it, and fuck if she’s gonna wait even a second for that dazed look to go out of his eyes. She steps right on over him, bracing a knee on the edge of the desk so her one foot’s hanging in the air and her other’s firm and planted on the ground next to him. She pulls at the straps of the harness, to give him an angle in, and his fingers tangle needily in the laces of her boot. She says, “Come on.” She knows it must be a strain for him to crane his neck all that way, but he puts his lips right where she wants them. All sloppy and open-mouthed. She hasn’t left him any room for finesse. She won’t leave him any room to not be all hers, all at once, with his whole bruised-up heart in it.

He makes her come real fast the first time. So fast it’s painful, all that crackle on his tongue. That magic in him, and the places where he keeps it. The spit with which he sheaths it. She says, “Don’t _stop,”_ and so he doesn’t, licks her up and down and side to side and in and out and in and out again. His eyes closed and sticky-wet and the top half of his face mashed up against the hard toy that he keeps having to contend with to get where she wants him to go. She watches him, how diligently he’s working. The thing chafing his sweaty forehead as he rocks his mouth into her cunt. The thin straps chafing _her_ as his movements tug them further and further out of alignment. And it’s all part of the same rhythm, isn’t it, the same heat, the same electric choir. She fists his hair and yanks his head back and she can see the gasp flicker from his throat all the way up to his eyes before he lets them fall helplessly shut.

She lets herself be fascinated. She takes the cock -- her cock -- in one hand and she drags it down his face, drags the blunt tip of it against his mouth, the seam of his lips. The pink wet part of them. They part further when he moans, and then they part all the way when she forces the head in. It’s sort of amazing, the way his body yields to the hardness. It’s like this rush of giddiness, watching his lips form an _‘o,’_ round and spit-shiny as the metal _‘o’_ that fastens this cock of hers to her body in the first place. _That’s_ symmetry. That’s everything in the same picture, the same illustration. The same sketch: my pleasure, your pleasure. She likes it. She pushes in further. He likes it too. He’s vocal though muffled around the thickness of the thing.

She experiments with thrusting (though it’s difficult, with the harness all tugged and pulled off-center and unaligned; she should have invested in something less strappy, more heavy duty, maybe), watching his head bob, his throat move, him swallowing, him lost in it. She watches until she can’t stand it anymore, and then she pulls out and she shoves his face under, again, shoves his face right up into her. He doesn’t like that any less, she thinks. He’s got that clever tongue of his at the hood of her clit, rolling it back and forth. She can feel his stubble. She can feel the vibrations of all his little sounds. She can feel how much he needs her.

It’s a good feeling. It makes her forget about the uncertainty that surrounds it. She alternates between making put his mouth on her cunt and her cock. It’s good, so good, the slide, from one to the other, and nothing ever getting less intense. Sometimes she pulls back from him and waits just long enough for him to miss her before she takes the tip of her cock in hand, draws it to the side, and lets it go to smack him nice and wet across his face. Those times she shocks low, startled moans out of him. Those are the times she most wants to laugh, and she does, and she knows he understands by the way his eyelashes flutter. The way his pulse flutters for her, in his throat. He builds and he builds. He brings her over again, and then again, and he never lets the fervency slacken. She throws her head back. It’s such a high-up feeling, like this, over him with his mouth where ever she wants it. It’s adrenaline and it’s pleasure and it’s feeling her whole body pound from head to foot. It’s like killing a dragon. It’s like _being_ a dragon.

She could fly forever. But she thinks, eventually, that Anders’ mouth is probably getting tired.

She lets him lick her through one more time, and this time she makes release a cue for the tension to go away, all the knots to start unknotting. She’s easy enough with her body that she can make it listen to her like that. She lives in it, in her fingers, on the balls of her feet. Maybe some people would say she ought to spend more time in her own head, but she likes having her soul tethered to something as unambiguous as sinew. She likes knowing the answers to certain questions. Who am I? I am all this muscle. I am all these yards of skin.

Anders is beneath her, heel of his hand pressed to his crotch, jaw working. Aching, presumably. His eyes are still sealed closed. Where his soul is tethered is not a place she has any name for.

“Baby,” she says.

He opens his eyes.

His breath only barely hitches when she hauls him up by the hair, like he is too tired to even react, or too dazed. She doesn’t exactly toss him over his desk. But she doesn’t exactly lay him out lovingly either. He thumps down on his chest, face buried his his forearms. She kicks his legs apart, steps between them.

“Don’t be rude now,” she admonishes. “We were talking.”

“Nn,” he says into his arms, and that just won’t do. She digs her fingernails into his thigh, pulls his hair, forcing his neck to arch, his shoulders to come up off of the desk. He scrambles to get his hands beneath him to support himself, tries futilely to twist out of her grip, away from the pain. He says, _“Hawke--”_

“Tell me what we were talking about.”

“Hawke.” A gasp. “I can’t. I don’t remember.”

“You do. The part before you got mouthy.”

“I was -- _ah!”_

“Yes?”

“I... I was telling you that I wanted it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I still do.”

“You gonna beg nice like you didn’t before?”

He sucks in a strained breath. He’s right at the ending of something. “Please, love.”

And Hawkes, they play fair. The world is always so cold and ruthless and so are the games that people make up to cope with it and where exactly equity is supposed to slot into things isn’t always so recognizable -- but sometimes it is. Some fucking times, and those times it’s in her blood to recognize it. She remembers being six and watching her Ma grit her teeth against the kicking in her belly. She remembers being twenty and watching her Da cough himself straight into death. She remembers reaching for their hands. She believes with all her soul -- the soul she keeps in her her skin, her joints, her teeth -- in the way that small warm kindnesses string themselves between two people, solid and unspoken. She lets go of Anders’ hair and she lets him back down.

She says, “Okay. Don’t worry, I will.”

She says, “I got you.”

Anders responds to her voice with a long soft unfurling of breath, slumping down and crumpling his papers. Too smoothly for him to have been consciously thinking about doing it he stretches his arms all the way out in front of him, fingers just curling over the desk’s far edge. Hawke likes seeing him like that, in a straight, simple line, all in one piece. Maybe he likes being seen like that too. The idea that he is free enough to give all of himself to anybody. Maybe that’s another draw to their particular fantasy.

She would take it all. She wants it all.

She touches the side of his face, his shoulders, his thighs. Bunches his coat up around his waist and pushes hard on his back with her knuckles so she can feel the ridges of his spine. She has to shove his legs back together so she can get pull his leggings and his smalls down his thighs in one uninterrupted slide, and where she makes him naked he’s all pale skin and wiry hair and vulnerability. The feeling she gets looking at him is like the feeling you get after hearing a bell ring. Her spine tingles. She drops to a crouch to deal with his boots and his leg near her face is radiating heat. Not like after the bell, maybe. More like after the thunder peals. All that echo, miles of interplay. Her whole body tingles.

The locks on his clinic door were easier to pick than the accumulated fastenings of his boots are to undo, a patchwork of laces and buckles and bandages he pieces together haphazardly whenever necessity requires, but she’s a rogue her hands are a rogue’s and both she and her hands are familiar enough with these boots and with this man that it’s no long spell before she’s divested him of one of them. He pulls that leg free of his clothing and steps to the side, so that his stance is as wide as she’d set it before. Hawke decides she doesn’t care about the other boot, or the leggings still bunched at the top of it. She shatters the profound space between their bodies to teeth her way up his thigh, tugging his hips a little way off the desk as she goes, so his cock hangs free. So she can reach under and feel how hard he is, how helpless. A little mirth leaks into her. She licks the underside of him, tip to base, feels the weight of his balls on the widest part of her tongue, flicks up, lets him feel that tongue pressing flat and wicked against his hole.

“Fuck,” Anders sobs, _“please.”_

And Hawke likes the taste of him, the salt, the drag and texture of his body hair, but she did promise. She pushes up off her knees and drapes herself over him, resting her head on his shoulder blades, both of her hands still between his legs. One around his cock, and the other with just the thumb pressing against him, at first, and then inside him, and he moans, and the give is easy, easy.

In spite of all her wondering about it, it’s startling. “You _were_ expecting this,” she says, almost accuses. “You slicked up.”

Beneath her he’s straining, his muscles seizing and relaxing and seizing again. “Wasn’t expecting--” a heaving breath “--anything. “I was thinking of you and jerking off. Just a maybe.”

“How can you ever,” she asks into his neck, “be satisfied with _maybe?”_

Even driven past distraction, he still has room to find her wrong-headed in a way that twists his voice wry, twists his lips into smiling even as he pants and quakes. “How can you ever expect more?”

And she doesn’t have an answer for that except _Because I can and I do and you can’t stop me,_ and she thinks it might not be good sex talk, or else it might just be too vulnerable to being taken apart, too hard to talk through in spite of being so easy to feel. So instead she grunts and levers herself off of him. “I’m going to do you now,” she explains.

She thinks he might beg _please_ again. But all he says, smile never quite leaving his face, is, “Yes.”

If you never expect much, then maybe all surprises are pleasant.

She wraps a fist around her cock and slides it right in, and his whole body stills. Her whole body, for its part, is attuned to the sound of his single, fragile breath.

“Yes,” he repeats.

And after all, for him, anything -- even an at-first awkward sex toy becoming slowly less awkward, becoming part of her, another piece of sinew to use as an anchor; even playing breathless games that make her wonder and wonder; even determinedly loving the whole of him though the whole of him is far too formidable and widely scattered for her to ever be able to understand it as well as she aches to, keep it as close as she should. For him, anything. She will make these pieces congeal. She pauses, for just a little, pulls out to yank her harness into place so she can actually move with it, and Anders whines in the interim. But when she finally gets it back into him and fucks him with it, fucks him with force, fucks him with her hand bruising his hip, everything is as it ought to be. Him gasping and her grunting and the both of them lost in a tight slick rhythm that doesn’t leave any cracks for doubt to infiltrate. All that is cracking is Anders’ breath: a stuttered litany of choked, gasping need. Hawke grunts. Hawke fucks him harder. Hawke smacks his thighs again and again against the desk.

He comes, finally, twitching, into her hand, into the dirt. She doesn’t stop though. She doesn’t need to, with her cock, which is made for inflexibility; she doesn’t need to ever, if she wants. If he wants. And she thinks they both well might. She knows it’s painful for him, when she grabs him so soon after he’s spent himself, when he’s raw as blistered skin in a new pair of boots. He’s a Warden, yeah, but that only makes it worse, really -- it means he _can_ get hard again, so it means he has to, when she forces him. And she does. She pants his name, against the back of his neck. “Hey Anders,” she says, “hey.” But he doesn’t answer. He presses his forehead to the wood, arches his back, sets his stance even wider. She can see herself going in and out of him, him taking it. And that’s -- that’s something. That’s not half bad. She takes her hand off of his cock and she puts it on her cock instead, feels it sliding under her fingertips as it slides into him. Presses forward a little, and then there is his hot skin where it’s straining, where it’s stretched open around her. He comes right then, at her touch, shaking and without a hand on him. Just for her, he comes.

That’s not half bad either.

Eventually she does slide out of him and doesn’t go back in, and he groans. But in spite of that, she’s left him not empty, but satisfied. She knows it by his lopsided smile, the one he shows her when he heaves himself over, when he sits up to look at her, sprawled on his desk with his leggings hanging from one ankle, his cock dripping: a sweaty mess and not a bit bothered by it. She knows it without him having to say it out loud. The worrying, wanting part of her simmers a little ways down. It’s not a fair game if anyone loses on purpose. But it is a fair game if there’s no real way to lose. And she maybe doesn’t need quite every piece of him, if the ones he’s able to offer her are always like this, this smile, enough to make her feel a little thrum of _yeah_ down to her core. _Yeah, here we are. Yeah, we’ve got this._

“Point for you,” Anders says, his eyes glinting and his mouth swollen and crooked beneath them.

Hawke grins. “Who’s counting?”

+


End file.
